


This is Probably a Conspiracy

by WerewolvesAreReal



Series: Everyone is Magical (except Hardison) [2]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter crossover kinda?, Humor, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: “Just a yes or no answer,” Hardison says, as he's been saying for weeks. “Magic. Throw me a bone, is magic real?”





	This is Probably a Conspiracy

Eliot scrapes his knife against the whetstone with too much force, cursing under his breath. “Goddammit, Hardison, leave it alone.”

“Just a yes or no answer,” Hardison says, as he's been saying for weeks. “Magic. Throw me a bone, _is magic real?_ ”

Mouth pinched, Eliot raises his knife to eye-level and examines it. Apparently displeased, he brings it back to the small whetstone with new vigor. “I ain't talking about this.”

“Which is basically an answer - “

Sophie sighs. They've all grown tired of his pestering. She moves to join Parker on the couch, and at his counter Nate pauses to tilt his head in their direction. Evidently he senses her intent, but doesn't try to stop her from speaking. “Yes, Hardison, magic is real.”

“I knew it!” Hardison exclaims. He points a finger at her, then wavers. “...You aren't trying to make me feel better, are you?”

“There's an entire magical community hidden from the world,” Sophie says. She leans back against the couch, unimpressed with his alarmed flailing. “Witches and wizards of all backgrounds, who use many different types of magic. Salem, incidentally, is the premier school in America, which is why Eliot was a little worried when you used the name during our last con.”

Eliot huffs but keeps sharpening his knives. Hardison regards Sophie with a look of wide-eyed wonder.

“In the Western world children typically get letters on their eleventh birthdays,” Sophie offers. “They are inducted under the illusion of attending private schools. You'd be surprised, really, how many noble or rich families have magic bloodlines.”

A longer pause. Then Hardison squints at Sophie, suspicion evident. “...Are you a witch? Is that what's happening here?”

Sophie smiles. It is a sharp, cutting smile that usually preludes danger. “A _witch –_ oh, no, Hardison. No, I am something much better. I have a little Veela blood, a little Siren. Not enough to be obvious, but my heritage does make it easy to convince men to do what I want.” She sniffs. “Not that I usually need magic, of course.”

In his chair Eliot nods to himself like she's confirmed some long-held suspicion. He examines the edge of a knife, frowning a little. “Ah, I wasn't sure about the Veela blood,” Nate muses. “Siren, though – that fits.”

“Whoa whoa,” Hardison says. “You too? So you're a – a _wizard?”_

Hardison seems scandalized just at the notion.

“Well, not anymore. My wand was snapped.” Sophie raises her eyebrows, and even Eliot pauses to glance at him. Nate smiles pleasantly and folds his hands into his pockets. “I have the pieces, but those are best used for emergencies.”

Sophie hums in a thoughtful way, tilting her head.

“You... have definitely used magic on our cons,” Hardison concludes. Nate neither confirms nor denies this. “Eliot, Eliot man, if you say you're a wizard or – warlock, or _werewolf - “_

Eliot doesn't look up from his knives. “I'm a squib.”

“You're a what.”

“My ma had magic. I don't.”

“Right. Right. A _squib.”_ Hardison nods, a bit wild-eyed, with an expression that clearly says he is at his last straw. “Parker, you got any magic secrets?”

“I never got a letter from any Salem place,” Parker says. “But it reminds me of that time an owl told me to go to a place with Hog-warts, when I was stealing the British crown jewels.”

“Uh. The crown jewels have never been stolen?”

Parker just smiles.

“...Am I the _only one_ who's not magical?” Hardison demands.

“Magic shorts out electronics,” Eliot tells him.

“...Oh thank god I'm not magical.”

 


End file.
